Montana 1948. Larry Watson

mother cleared her throat, and when she began to speak, her voice was steady and strong, but her pauses were off, as if she had started on the wrong breath. “The reason, Wesley, the reason Marie didn’t want to be examined by Frank is that he—he has . . . is that your brother has molested Indian girls.”

      My father must have started to leave because I heard the clump of a heavy footstep and my mother said quickly, “No, wait. Listen to me, please. Marie said she didn’t want to be alone with him. You should have seen her. She was practically hysterical about having me stay in the room. And once Frank left she told me all of it. He’s been doing it for years, Wes. When he examines an Indian he . . . he does things he shouldn’t. He takes liberties. Indecent liberties.”

      There was a long silence. My mother’s hollyhocks and snapdragons grew alongside the house where I was hiding, and the bees that flew in and out of the flowers filled the air with their drone.

      Then my father spoke. “And you believe her.”

      “Yes, I do.”

      Footsteps again. Now I knew my father was pacing.

      “Why would she lie, Wesley?”

      My father didn’t say anything, but I knew what he was thinking: She’s an Indian—why would she tell the truth?

      “Why, Wes?”